


Wayward Prince

by banjjakbanjjak



Category: Anastasia (1997), Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Anastasia (1997 & Broadway) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Amnesia, Anastasia AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, COC 2020, Carry On Countdown 2020 (Simon Snow), Day 3: Retellings, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:49:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27741784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banjjakbanjjak/pseuds/banjjakbanjjak
Summary: The Mage's Revolution brought an end to the House of Pitch, all perishing in a sea of flames.But rumours persisted, that one soul survived the horrors that night, the young Prince Tyrannus.Ten years later, an ordinary orphan named Baz sets out into the world, on a journey to his past.And maybe, just maybe, this journey would bring him a future with a special man with blue eyes and bronze hair.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 17
Kudos: 36





	1. COVER




	2. PROLOGUE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! The beginning of my Anatasia AU for Snowbaz!
> 
> I wanted to say thank you to my wonderful beta [Otherworldsivelivedin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn/pseuds/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn) for being my cheerleader, reading through my nonsense and being a wonderful friend.

**FIONA**

Her carriage pulled into the Palace grounds, and footmen were quick to arrive and help steady her as she stepped out. The step ladder frosted over from the freezing winds they were experiencing the past week.

“Your Highness.”

Passing on her coat to an attendant waiting by the door, she made her way through the grand entrance, nodding at the high society folk that were invited, all of them bowing as she walked past.

But Fiona bowed to none but one person – her sister, Natasha. The Empress.

Tonight was a celebration of three hundred years of Pitch rule, three centuries of advancement in the sciences, the arts and peace. Shining achievements for the young Empress and Emperor Consort Malcolm Grimm. Though Fiona had her reservations about Malcolm, her sister loved him dearly – so much so that she even considered changing the Royal House to Grimm-Pitch. Fiona was the first to object, followed quietly by their late father and mother.

And they arrived at a compromise in the form of Natasha’s only child, Fiona’s one and favourite nephew, Prince Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. It would be up to him when he ascends the throne to decide which name, or names, to take.

The boy was bright, if a bit melancholy for an eight year old, but Fiona loved him. She had a sneaking suspicion that if he hadn’t taken after Natasha so much (and by extension herself and the rest of the Pitch line), she wouldn’t be as warm to him. That’s what she told herself, but something deep down told her she’d love him no matter what.

“Empress,” Fiona bowed as she greeted her sister with a small grin.

“Fiona,” she said, “Lovely that you could join us.”

Fiona turned to the man standing next to her sister, “Malcolm,” she said coldly. Had his agricultural reforms not seen the success they did, Fiona would’ve told Natasha to keep him quiet, like the many Empress Consorts that came before him – beautiful, quiet and tame. But alas, his ideas were good, and they saw results.

Malcolm didn’t bother greeting her formally, which made Fiona happier than she should be, knowing she got under his skin. They never got along, and honestly, she doubted they ever will, except for when it came to their precious prince, “Where is the little devil?”

“Tyrannus? Last I checked he was off playing somewhere,” Malcolm said, “He was waiting for you.”

Fiona took her leave, stepping behind the thrones, to look for her nephew. It didn’t take long, all she had to do was follow faint sounds of squabbling, and there she found him, arguing with a kitchen boy.

Fiona was about to interrupt, but then the kitchen boy spoke up, “Oi, do you have to be such a prick?” he said. Fiona bit on her lip to stop herself from laughing.

 _Kid’s got guts_.

“That’s a big word for you, well done.”

“Oh I oughta.”

Fiona cleared her throat. As much fun as it was to watch, and her belief that he could do with a bit of rough housing, have the chance to be a normal child, she spoke up before either of them got into trouble. And she knew it’d be the kitchen boy to get the short end of that stick.

“Basil.” Fiona rarely questioned her sister’s decision, but naming a child _Tyrannus_ of all things surely made the list (along with marrying Malcolm). At least he had a workable middle name. 

“Fiona!” he ran to her, immediately forgetting about the kitchen boy. She knelt down to give him a proper hug, she winked at the kitchen boy and gave him a little wave, he understood quickly and made himself scarce.

“What have I told you about menacing the servants?” Fiona said.

“Do it?”

“Yes, but smartly and quietly. Not during a party and so openly!” She gave his forehead a kiss and lead him back out into the ballroom. He was rambling on about the things he had been learning in his classes.

“Soon my French will be good enough to live with you in Paris,” he said. She quirked an eyebrow at him, finding her seat next to thrones, much smaller and much less opulent.

“You want to come to Paris with me?”

“Always.”

“Well,” Fiona said, “I have a little something for you.” She reached into her purse, and took out a small music box. She had commissioned the House of Faberge for music box, and they came back to her with a decorated egg made of enamel, dyed blue, and lined with pearls, amethysts and citrines, set against small gold sunbursts and starbursts. Sitting on a small gold base.

“What is it?”

Fiona said nothing, instead she took out a necklace, the pendant a small sunburst. Slotting it onto the dial at the back, the egg slowly opened, and in it, a small globe, spinning.

“It plays my lullaby!” Basil hummed along to the tune, as did Fiona. A little jingle she had made up one night when Natasha and Malcolm were stuck in a late night meeting and Basil woke up from a nightmare. It’s a testament to Faberge’s craftsmanship that they got her little tune so accurately.

“Now you can listen to it when you get the scared in the dark,” she said, winking at him.

“I’m not afraid of the dark,” he mumbled.

“In that case I should give it to someone else then…maybe that kitchen boy? The one with the freckles?”

“No!” Basil grabbed her wrists, “I love it Fiona.”

She took of the key and put the necklace over his head, “Read what it says.”

Basil squinted at the inscription on the little sun, “Together in…Paris,” he beamed at her, “Really?”

“This summer, and every summer your parents let you.”

Basil threw his arms around Fiona, and usually she’d school him to be mindful and have decorum, but it was party, and no one’s attention was on them. Unlike her, he followed Natasha’s path – the path of a ruler. One that meant a lifetime of watching over his shoulder, or expectations and proprietary – despite being the most powerful person in the country, he was bound to a cage. A gilded, splendidly furnished cage, but a cage nonetheless.

Just as the party was getting into full swing, Fiona noticed a scuffle from the other end of the ballroom. She stood up to get a better view, instinctively standing in front of Basil, shielding him from what was about to come. The problem with inviting everyone from Parliament meant inviting every party, including those who wouldn’t hesitate to tear down everything this palace represented, those who wouldn’t hesitate to rip this family apart.

Parting the crowd like the pariah he is was the one the people called The Mage, or Davy as Fiona and her friends called him. “The Mage” as a name started out as a joke, a way for his political opponents to disparage him and belittle him, for peddling his lofty and unfeasible ideals but he leant into it. The way he spoke about himself and his supporters made him sound like the second coming of Christ, when in actuality, he was just charismatic, and somehow amassed a small but loud following.

“Davy,” Natasha said, not sparing him a look as she took her place back on the throne, _her_ throne.

“Natasha.”

“I see the festivities are not to your liking,” she said. Fiona scowled at him, not that he was looking, but she was also aware of the child standing behind her, craning his neck to see what was happening.

“None of this is yours,” he said, swaying slightly, “I don’t see why my friends were barred from entering.”

“This is a private event, if they wish to tour the Palace, they are more than welcome to visit at another time,” Natasha said, “And you will find that this does indeed belong to me and my family. It has, for the last three hundred years.”

“It won’t be for long, mark my words,” he slurred, saliva flying everywhere. The entire court was silent, shocked at the scene he was causing.

“I will excuse that threat to the Crown,” Natasha said coolly, “Davy, you’re drunk. Please leave before you make an even bigger scene.”

“Enjoy your time on the throne while you have it. If the French could survive without a monarch, so can we,” he spat out before downing his drink and smashing the glass on the ground and marching out, practically snarling at everyone on his way out. Out of the corner of Fiona’s eye she could see the kitchen boy that Basil was squabbling with being pushed out to clean it up. She turned around and gave him and his supervisor a look, shaking her head slightly.

“Anyone who shares in his views is welcome to leave with him,” Natasha said loudly, her voice booming and ringing throughout the silent ballroom. Not a single soul moved, “Well then, let’s let not let this interrupt a splendid evening.”

The music started again, but there was an uneasy tension pulsing throughout the ballroom. Malcolm was speaking quietly with Natasha, as was Mitali and Martin Bunce, her advisors. Fiona thought about approaching her sister, but she figured she’d let the real adults figure out the situation; her current priority was with Basil.

“You alright?” turning around to her nephew who looked angry, but confused at the same time.

“Why was he so angry at Mother?”

“Listen to me Basil,” Fiona knelt down, brushing a loose hair from his face, “There will always people out there who may not like you. But like your Mother and Father, and your grandparents, never let it show. You don’t get the upperhand by wearing your heart on your sleeve. You understand?”

“Yes, I think,” he said, his brows knotted together.

Fiona raised a hand to smooth them out, “But that’s a problem and lesson for an older Basil to learn.”

“I’m turning nine in two months!”

“Let’s speak about it again when you hit two digits, shall we?”

“In Paris?”

“In Paris. And anywhere else we’re at.”

Fiona pulled him into a tight hug, ignoring the nagging feeling that this time, Davy’s threats weren’t empty and meaningless posturing.

* * *

**_BANG!_ **

Fiona jolted out of bed at the sound – she didn’t know where it came from, but it was loud, and it sounded like gunfire. Grabbing her dressing gown, and a coat for good measure, she ran from her chambers. The guards on duty were already running around. Something was wrong, and she willed her sleep-addled mind to clear.

Grabbing hold of a guard, she demanded answers, “What’s happening?”

“Your Highness. Revolutionaries, protestors, they’ve stormed the Palace.”

Fiona’s heart fell into her stomach, , “Where’s the Empress?”

“In her Chambers with the Emperor.”

Another gunshot ran out, and there were screams.

Fiona let the guard go, grabbing a pair of shoes, she ran to her sister’s room. Everyone looked tense when she entered, Natasha’s long hair in a messy braid, Malcolm hair sticking up in all directions. “Tasha, we have to leave now,” Malcolm said.

“I will not give in to these thugs and leave my own home because some managed to cross the fence,” Natasha was firm, no signs of fear in her voice, just anger.

“Now’s not a time to be proud,” Malcolm implored.

“Now is exactly the time to stay firm!”

“Where’s Basil?” Fiona shouted. Natasha and Malcolm looked at each other, then back to Fiona, “I’ll go find him.”

“Fi,” Natasha called out, walking towards her, “Take him to Paris. Keep him safe, until this blows over.” Fiona nodded at her sister and ran to Basil’s room, “If anything happens, it’s me they want. Keep him safe Fi. I need you to promise.”

“I promise,” and she ran out the room.

Never in her life did she think she’d detest the size of the Palace and the many many rooms and identical rooms, but right now, what’d she’d give right now to have Basil be just down the corridor. As she made her way through the palace, the calls of distress were growing louder, there was more and more gunfire. Most distressing was there was smoking coming from the gardens below. She could feel the corner of her vision darkening, the sun that lit up their enchanting world waning, but she couldn’t believe it, not yet, not until she got Basil out and safe.

Making one last corner, she was at Basil’s room, completely unguarded. “Basil!” she shouted as she opened the door. She could just make out his small, thin figure in bed, clutching the blankets. Without hesitating, she fished out a coat from his dresser and the first pair of boots she could find, “Hurry and put this on.”

“What’s happening Fi?” his voice was shaking, but he was already off the bed with one boot on.

“Keeping you safe,” Fiona said as another gunshot rang out, “Now come on, we have to go.”

Fiona all but dragged Baz out of his room, his legs having trouble keeping up with hers, but they were at least on the move, when suddenly she felt Basil pull his hand out of hers, “My music box!” Before Fiona could even react, he was already running back.

“They’re in the Palace. Guards!” someone shouted further down the hallway.

“Basil…God damn it,” she ran after him back into his room shutting the door behind them, and watched impatiently him turn everything upside down until he found the music box. Fiona could hear footsteps, running, and they didn’t seem friendly. And they were trapped in this room with no where to go.

 _I had one fucking job and it was to keep Basil safe. For fuck’s sake_.

Suddenly the wall by Basil’s bed opened, and out popped the kitchen boy.

“C’mon, through here, out the servants quarters!” he said. Fiona didn’t need to be told twice and scooped Basil off his feet and all but carried him into the passageway. She heard a thud, something had hit the floor.

“My music box!”

The kitchen boy had closed the wall panel, and Fiona held her breathe, putting her hand over Basil’s mouth. She could hear faint voices from the other side.

“Where are they boy?”

Something smashed, likely a vase of some kind.

Then a cry from someone, and then something hitting the ground, or rather, someone. Fiona felt chills down her spine, and prayed that whatever happened to the kitchen boy wouldn’t happen to them. So she pushed on ahead, holding Basil’s with a death grip, and soon they were through the servants quarters and out the back of the Palace. Thankfully the fighting was concentrated mainly at the front, giving them a window of opportunity.

Then it happened.

An explosion.

The Palace she had grown up in, their family home over the last three hundred years was set ablaze. Life as she known it was over, the part of the Palace that was burning brightest was the Chamber suites, the last place she saw her sister.

Basil was crying, and all Fiona could do was hold him, shielding him from the cold winds, but not the lashing of cold reality that was crashing around them.

* * *

The train station was rammed with people. It seemed that word of a potential civil war had made it to the streets, everyone was flocking to trains to leave the country, to travel out of the capital to mainland Europe. The ticket office was a mass of people shouting, waving money, whereas others were just hopping on departing trains. Fiona sure as hell didn’t have a penny to her name right now.

It was chaos.

“All trains departing to Dover, ferries to run to Paris all night!”

The tell-tale screech rang out in the station – a train was departing. Like a beacon, everyone descended on the train, Fiona was no exception. Turning back to check on Basil, she pulled him along and pushed past the crowds. There was so much shouting and adrenaline, but Fiona was no stranger to getting her hands dirty. One does not stay out partying in Paris and not pick up some skills.

With some well-timed elbowing, she managed to catch up to the train that was about to depart, the platform attendants having long given up on maintaining any order. Fiona had only just got one foot on the train and slipped, but thanks to a tall woman and someone that looked like her twin brother, they managed to pull her on.

But that also meant she lost her grip on Basil. Panicked she turned around and saw the little boy running after the train.

“Come on Ty, grab my hand, reach for it!” She was begging, that his long limbs would obey her words. There were more people pushing against her, trying to get on, but she stood firm, and the twins that had helped her were helping block people. Be it pity or solidarity, Fiona was grateful.

But none of this meant anything if she couldn’t get Basil.

“Fi!”

“Basil, come one, take my hand!”

Straining, Fiona managed to just about reach his hand, but the train was picking up speed, and he was having trouble keeping up.

“Don’t let go Fi!”

And then he fell, and time stopped as Fiona watched his finger slip out from hers and his head hitting the floor of the platform.

“BAZ!”

But the train didn’t stop. It powered on, the steam and burning coal delivering everyone out of London.

Fiona tried to jump from the train, but the sheer number of people in her way made it impossible. She watched helplessly as the crowd swallowed up the limp, unconscious figure of her nephew, lying cold on the floor.


	3. JOURNEY TO THE PAST

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There must’ve been a time when Baz had something like this. His necklace was a testament to this. That there was someone out there waiting for him to come home. And home, as far as he could work out, might just be in Paris.

**BAZ**

Today was the day, his last day in this wretched orphanage in Hampshire. It’s been ten long years, but Baz was finally free. Not that he was the ungrateful sort, but after years and years of waking up and hoping someone would find him and rescue him, he’d grown to resent the place. Then again, he couldn’t really blame anyone, people had a hard enough time feeding themselves since the Revolution, let alone charity cases.

Baz gave his room one last look. It was a room he had shared with countless number of children over the years but there was nothing for him here that’d he’d miss. Towards the end he even gave up his bed for the younger ones, figuring they needed the mattress more than he did. His back hated him for it, but kids stick together.

He didn’t even have anything to take with him – everything he had ever had belonged to this orphanage. And so with nothing but the scratchy coat and suit he managed to save up for, he made for the doors of the orphanage, where his carer, Possibelf, waited for him.

She wasn’t a bad woman, in fact, she was doing the Lord’s work, caring for unwanted and displaced children, separated from their families because of Revolution. She would tell the children that any day their parents may come for them, so they had behave and be good until then. Baz stopped believing long ago.

Honestly, even if his family showed up he had doubts he’d remember them. Most of what he knew about his life was from others told him – a child left on their own wandering along the train platform the morning after the Mage’s Men sieged the Palace. The only clue he had to his past was the necklace he had, a tiny pendant, engraved with the simple words _Together In Paris_. The lustre of the gold had worn down over the years, because of Baz playing with it. But the engraving endured, just like Baz did.

Possibelf was standing at the door. She was tired, aged and run down – much like the orphanage was. The drapery didn't match, dust motes floated in the air catching the morning light, everyone and everything in here has seen better days. Of course, no child ended up here out of their own choice, but she did her best and made do with what she had. For that, Baz was grateful. He gave her a nod, pulling on his coat. Honestly, there wasn’t much to say between them – he was free to do whatever he wanted, and she had one less mouth to feed.

“All set?” she asked. Baz gestured to his persons, he had nothing but the clothes on his back and she knew it. “Not quite then?” She reached into her apron and handed him a letter.

“What is this?”

“A job, in London. As a clerk. The tickets have been paid for, and there’s a tenner in there.”

Baz looked at her, surprised and quite touched, really. But there was a selfish thought nagging his mind. He had no interest in working in London, or staying in the country at all. Where he needed to be was Paris.

“Thank you, but – ”

“Together in Paris?” he wasn't sure if her tone was mocking or sympathy, “You still think that after all these year’s your family is still there?” Baz schooled his face, he fought down the instinct to reach for his necklace and just raised an eyebrow at her. “Take the job, it’s time you grew up.”

It was pity.

“How did you even get me a job anyway?”

“You’re the brightest kid here, therefore the best investment. You write like the King of Sweden and Lord knows you act like the Prince of Spain. Seems like people in the city appreciate good penmanship.”

Baz bid his goodbyes and left the orphanage. He made no promises to take the job, all he did was promise to send something back. For the last decade he spent here. He didn’t know when or how he was, but it was the least he could do. He may not be sure where to go, but he knew answers did not lie in Hampshire so he boarded the train to London.

Baz could see out the window of his cabin there was a family of three, or four, he wasn’t sure, running for the train, all laughing. The mother telling off the children, the children hiding behind their father who was struggling with the cases.

There must’ve been a time when Baz had something like this. His necklace was a testament to this. That there was someone out there waiting for him to come home. And home, as far as he could work out, might just be in Paris.

He fought with himself the entire journey from Hampshire to London. The realistic part of him told him to take the job, accept the hand life had dealt him and work his way to Paris. On the other hand, there was _something_ telling him he had the rest of his life to be responsible – if he was to be reckless just once in his life, this would be it.

He fiddled with necklace, coiling and coiling the chain around his fingers as the countryside rolled past him vast empty green fields paired with a cold grey sky – picturesque for British winter. Baz found himself standing at a crossroad in his life, and this singular decision may or not determine the rest of his life. He was not a man of God per se, but he prayed to anyone that would listen for a sign, a hint, anything. Something external and beyond his power to guide him down a path – he didn’t need it to be the _right_ path, just _any_ path.

A sign that would kickstart his journey to the past. _His_ past.

The sign never came. What did come his way was smog, thick and uninviting, telling him that he had arrived in London. Gone were open spaces, replaced with rows and rows of red brick houses, factory chimneys reached for the skies, pumping their black smoke into the air.

Stepping off the train, Baz could feel the letter sitting in his pocket heavily, as did his necklace. Standing in the passenger hall, Baz looked around him. London felt foreign, everything moved fast, everyone had somewhere to be constantly. Perhaps this was what city life meant. He could make a home here, make friends, build up a life. He took out the letter and finally opened it, having ignored it all this time. It was your typical pleasantries, but the clerical work seemed simple enough, the pay decent (then again, anything to Baz would’ve been a good wage). It represented what staying in London would mean – security, safety and predictability. He would become one of the gruff and pushy people, one of the many grey faces in London.

He’d be Baz.

Then again, he wasn’t even certain that his name was Baz. Apparently that’s all he said for days when he was found so it stuck.

If he stayed in London, he’d be Baz. An orphan without a past, but perhaps a future.

Honestly there was no reason for his past to have so much bearing on his present. Hell, he’s sure plenty of people make it a point to bury their past as deep as they could. But that was it – they had the luxury of burying their pasts, he didn’t.

In Paris, he could _still_ be Baz. But he _might_ find someone waiting for him; he _might_ find someone who loved him; he _might_ find out about his past. And he’d still have a future there. A lot of that hung on what _might_ happen.

He shoved the letter back into his pocket, and headed for the ticket office.

_Screw signs._

Baz was a man that made his own fate.

* * *

The problem with being fuelled with wide-eyed optimism (an unusual mood for Baz) was that the world was quick to dispel it. Baz did his best to stay calm and collected as he walked up to the ticket office, feigning disinterest and nonchalance. He found that looking and behaving like a twat got him what he wanted faster, as if whoever he was speaking to just wanted him gone.

If only Baz wasn’t so good at being a twat he’d try a different tact.

“One ticket to Paris please,” he said, leaning on the small counter space, staring down the attendant behind the glass.

She raised an eyebrow at him, “Paris?”

“Yes.”

“You mean…to Dover, to catch the ferry to France?”

“Do you not sell packages of some sort?” he asked, annoyed. Granted he had no idea if they did in fact sell something like that, but he was annoyed he made such a simple mistake. Either people in Hampshire were easier to intimidate, or they could smell just how out of his element he was in the big city.

“Alright,” she said, clearly bored of him already, “Just need to check your exit papers. Then tickets are yours.”

“Exit papers?” Baz stared at the ticket lady, and she blinked back at him.

“Yes. You’ll need exit papers to…exit…the country?” she was sounding the words to him as if he were a child, and now he was genuinely annoyed.

“Oi, hurry up, would you?” someone shouted behind him.

“I don’t … have exit papers,” Baz said, “where – ”

“Look kid, no exit papers, no ticket,” she said, “And don’t look to me to help you because no one’s paying enough to do that. So please step aside. And I’m only saying please once.”

Baz swallowed down the humiliation and stepped away from the counter, holding his head as high as he could. He ignored the stares he got from the others in the queue and found a bench in the passenger hall. As embarrassing as it was, if he could pretend that he was unaffected by this, then others may just believe it. No matter what, he refused to be seen as some country bumpkin who didn’t know any better. These exit papers was merely an added obstacle for him – an obstacle he wasn’t quite sure how to clear.

With no where to go, he stayed in the station, raking his brain for…something. An epiphany or a moment of clarity, but all he could gather was that for exit papers he needed some form of identification. But honestly, if he had that, he wouldn’t be here chasing the phantom of his missing past.

As he mulled over his options, he felt someone staring at him. He snuck at glance and saw that it was man, with a bemused on his face. Granted he knew that London was more … _open_ what with the new laws that have been pushed through, but the last thing Baz needed right now was romantic dalliances with a man, a _stranger_.

Baz shifted uncomfortably, and he made the mistake of taking another glance at the man, because he was now walking over. The first thing Baz noticed was his obnoxious belt buckle, far too ornate, too large and…majestic, for a man of his station. It looked almost Imperial in design.

 _Brave_. _Wearing that around these days_.

He rolled back his shoulders, staying firmly on his little bench, Baz folded his arms and leveled his gaze at the man as he made his way over. He leveled a gaze at him, eyebrow arched, the picture of aloof disinterest.

(Which really made no sense because Baz, against his better judgment, was _clearly_ interested. Not in the man himself, but in his interest in Baz.)

“Sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear,” he said, “Exit papers?”

Baz stayed quiet, believing there was no reason to reveal anything about himself to this man, not until he knew what he was doing, talking to Baz.

“If you’re looking for exit papers, I know someone who could help,” he said, his voice quieter now, making Baz lean in slightly to hear him, “Simon could help you.”

“Simon who?

“Snow. I think it’s Snow. Tell him Gareth sent you,”

“And where would I find this generous man, handing out exit papers?”

“The old Palace.”

“Hasn’t it been abandoned for years?”

He shrugged, “Choice is yours.” And he walked away, leaving Baz before he could ask more questions.

There were many signs telling him that this was a bad idea, of epic proportions.

But Baz only asked for a sign, not a _good_ sign.

“Let’s see what this Snow is all about,” he muttered as he picked himself off the bench.

It would appear the journey to the past began with a visit to London’s past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on Tumblr: banjjakbanjjak.tumblr.com
> 
> Once again thank you my wonderful beta otherworldsivelivedin.tumblr.com <3


	4. HAVE YOU HEARD?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like any revolution, there are wild stories, crazy rumours and tall tales. Their one was no exception... Every once in a while, there’d be rumours that the Prince had been found, or someone down the pub would say the saw the Prince in Whitechapel, or that the Prince was the Ripper – taking revenge on the city that left him to rot.

**SIMON**

_Have you heard?_

_The rumours?_

_What rumours?_

_About the Prince?_

It was exhilarating, carrying all this cash. Never mind the looks at the bank, but if anyone jumped him right now, that’d be his life savings gone. None of that was going to happen, not with the patrols around the city. Clad in muted green jackets and ridiculously tight trousers, the Mage’s Men roamed the streets of London to maintain _order_. 

Simon wasn’t sure how much of order they maintained as opposed to disrupting, but nonetheless he dipped his head at several of them as they passed him. They were ultra loyalists to the Mage, the country’s new benevolent leader. Well, benevolent to those that follow him, which also made up the majority of the network of curtain twitchers ready to report anyone that offended the regime. That said, due process still existed, just the entry requirements onto the state’s shitlist was much lower now.

In times likes these, people get crafty, people thinking outside the box to survive. It’s how Simon survived since he unceremoniously lost his job as a kitchen boy for the Imperial house. Since then, he grew up on the streets, scraping by where he could, until he was old enough to realise the assets he had. An approachable demeanour, a friendly face, and an earnest look that made him trustworthy. It made him the perfect swindler, the perfect con man. Well, not perfect, because if he was, he’d be much better off and not carrying his life savings around in a paper bag, gambling it all away on the greatest con in history.

He quickly shrugged off his coat, damp from the light rain, the moment he got into his small flat. Penny poked her head out from her room, his best friend, his only friend in this dirty city. In retrospect, he should’ve known better than to try and swindle someone like Penny. She saw through him right from the beginning, but she let him continue on, and then sat him down and explained everything he did wrong.

She was down on her luck, as was he, so he suggested they team up, and the rest was, as one says, history. He had the wild ideas, the basics, and Penny would refine them, coming up with a play by play plan that practically ensured success.

“You’re back!”

“Hey Pen,” he said excitedly, “Got the money!”

“The theatre’s all set up so,” she said digging into the paper bag, “I’ll be taking that.” Simon balked at the amount she took, “It’s expensive running auditions.”

“We already have a theatre, what else do we need?” he said, turning to the kettle.

“For people like Gareth to scout for potential … people, and you know he never does anything cheaply,” Penny said, “If only he wasn’t so good at it.”

“He just looks out for the pretty ones, it’s never about talent or ability,” Simon said.

“Well, our prince can’t be _ugly_ now could he?” Penny said with a small chuckle, “He’s a _prince_.”

 _Our prince_.

Like any revolution, there are wild stories, crazy rumours and tall tales. Their one was no exception. The most popular rumour was that the night of the siege, though the Empress and her husband perished in the explosion, the young prince had survived and was living in hiding. Every once in a while, there’d be rumours that the Prince had been found, or someone down the pub would say the saw the Prince in Whitechapel, or that the Prince was the Ripper – taking revenge on the city that left him to rot.

What also helped fuel the rumours was that, despite all these years, Princess Fiona believed her nephew to be alive, setting a reward of £10 million for anyone that could return her nephew to him. She never actually said _why_ she thought her nephew was alive, but it didn’t take much for anyone to understand that this was the wishful thinking of a woman who watched her family die. That didn’t stop the opportunistic from trying to con their way to the reward money – sympathy was expensive, especially living under The Mage.

That said, Simon knew more than most, and Simon had something none of them had. The last time he saw the Prince wasn’t some public event or the Anniversary ball. But in the Palace, during the siege. He remembered pushing a panicked Prince through the servants’ door and waking up to a throbbing head and something on the floor pushing against his chest – the music box, the one that the Prince foolishly ran back for.

When Penny found the music box amongst his belongings she asked about it, because, selling it would’ve paid for their rent, if not their own bloody house somewhere in Regent’s Park. Well, if they managed to find a buyer who dared take in Imperial goods. Simon told her he found it at the Palace after the siege, trying to find something he could pawn. He trusted her with his life, but he didn’t want _anyone_ knowing that he might be the last person to see the Prince alive and well.

And so a plan was born – they would find an actor to play the role of Prince Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, Simon and Penny would train him, and then when they meet the Princess, they’d present the music box and…well, Simon wasn’t joking when he said this would be the greatest con in history.

“Did you get tickets for Paris?” Simon asked, pouring himself and Penny a cup of tea, only to realise there was no milk anywhere, “Did you forget the milk?”

“It was milk or tickets to Paris,” Penny said, waving three tickets in the air.

“We _cannot_ be that poor that we couldn’t afford _milk,_ ” Simon said, “We just got our share from that job with Trixie.”

“That went to booking the theatre,” Penny said, “But…” she reached into the paper bag again, “this should be enough for milk. I’ll be right back!” And with that she was out the flat.

Simon stood in the tiny alcove they call a kitchen. Their flat was small, lived in, but small. It was a miracle he and Penny managed to share this place together for as long as they did without driving each other up the wall. The tea was cold by the time Penny came back with the milk, but Simon wasn’t one to let anything go to waste, especially food.

He looked forward to the day he could throw out food just because it had gone cold. Which was why this con _had to work_.

* * *

The auditions were _terrible_. It was a week of watching one unfortunate performance after another. He honestly had no idea where these people were coming from. It was a circus. It wasn’t the most publicised auditions, so these people had to have overheard or been told specifically to come here.

 _Whatever we’re paying Gareth, it’s too much_.

At one point someone started reciting Shakespeare, thinking that was the epitome of class and refinement. Penny was more optimistic, but even she looked deflated by the end of the day. She had marked out one or two possible candidates, but she knew even _she_ needed convincing. Simon pulled at his curls, which have seen a fair amount of tugging today by the sheer incompetence the _talent_ had provided.

“We’ll find someone Si,” Penny said emptily, “I mean, maybe the Princess is senile?”

“You’re the one that said don’t bank on maybes,” he sighed into his hands, “Ugh, this is hopeless.”

“The fourth guy we saw, he looked about right, a decade can really change a face right?”

“He didn’t feel _right_ , none of them did,” Simon said, “I don’t know what it is but they didn’t feel right. Like a shoe that’s too small.”

Penny knew better than to question Simon’s gut feeling. As baseless as it was, his instincts have proven him right on many occasions. She also knew he worked at the Palace, and between the two of them, he’s had more run ins with the Prince than most people, if not most servants.

It all started the first night Simon was taken in as a kitchen boy. He was hungry, new and slightly afraid of having his head chopped off. So he woke up early in the morning and snuck into the kitchens looking for something to eat, hopefully some freshly baked bread.

That’s when he saw him, the famous Prince Tyrannus, also looking for food. Simon remembered his first thought was confusion – couldn’t he just order someone to give him something? Then he saw what it was Prince Tyrannus wanted, the bowl of hard boiled sweets sitting on the top shelf. Tyrannus paid him no mind, walking around the kitchen looking for something to step up on.

“What…what – do you need help?” Simon said. Tyrannus just shook his head, and continued to glare at the top shelf as if it had committed treason, wronged the Crown somehow. “Hey,” Simon said stepping closer to Tyrannus, who was slightly taller than him, and roughly the same age, “I can help you get it?”

“I’m taller than you.”

“I can help you get up,” Simon said, getting down on one knee, gesturing at it, “Step up, you should be able to reach.”

Tyrannus was suspicious, but evidently the desire for sweets outweighed everything else, “Alright.” Just before he stepped on Simon’s knee, he said, “And I won’t tell anyone about you being here.” Simon smiled at Tyrannus, who returned one as well, albeit, smaller and more reserved.

Unfortunately, when Tyrannus stepped up onto him and put all his weight on his toes, he dug into Simon too harshly. Simon jerked instinctively, and Tyrannus lost his balance, but not before he grabbed onto the shelf and took the whole thing with him.

He remembered being in tears, but Tyrannus stayed cool, rolling his eyes as the attendants fussed over him. Naturally, no one really bothered check on Simon, which, in retrospect was questionable at best. When the Emperor finally came to the kitchen, he was livid as he checked over Tyrannus, “Explain yourself.”

Tyrannus’s eyes darted to Simon then calmly said, “I wanted sweets, saw him on his way back from the servant’s toilets and told him to help me. I said I’d have him quartered if he didn’t.”

He was in so much trouble, and somehow Simon had gotten away without so much as a telling off. A week later he asked Tyrannus why he took the blame, “if I didn’t, you’d be cast out or dead. You owe me your life, don’t forget it.”

From then on, the prince took every opportunity he had to take the piss out of him. But Simon never stood down – at least when they were alone - but Simon never forgot how he took the blame for all that without question. That’s probably why he tried to save them during the siege, to get even. If the prince survived, Simon liked to believe he’d returned the favour.

And now, the Prince was going to save his life once again – and none of the actors they’ve seen today held a candle to that child Simon met in the kitchen.

* * *

Their plan was not paying off, and they were running low on funds fast. They had expected things to be going a bit smoother, and to be en route to Paris by now. With no prince, no theatre and soon no flat to live in, things were decidedly not going well. They’ve been avoiding staying at the flat just so they don’t bump into their landlord.

“Simon we can’t keep getting up before the crack of dawn and loitering in the streets until late at night,” Penny said, “You’re exhausted. _I’m_ exhausted.”

He knew that, but the more they burned into their funds, the less they’d have for any surprises later down the line, surprises that they may need to buy their way out of. But Penny was always the sensible one, the one to know when to stop before they got ahead. She’s not said as much, but even Simon saw the writing on the wall.

He just desperately wanted this to work, and so the words were out his mouth before he realised, “let’s move to the Palace.”

The idea was as stupid as it sounded, but now that he’d suggested it, it sounded stupid enough it might just work. Penny narrowed her eyes at him, “Have you lost your mind?”

“It’s not like _this_ room is any worse than the Palace,” Simon said under his breath, “Their rooms are huge, even the guest ones, let alone the Royal chambers.”

“That place has been abandoned for a decade,” Penny said, “And a lot of people died there.”

“I mean…no one’s using it. And it’ll be free lodging,” Simon said with a grin.

Penny pushed her glasses into her hair and pinched her nose bridge. With a sigh, she scoped out their flat, before finally turning to Simon, “I’ll start packing now. You go let Gareth and everyone know to send any potential princes to our…new home.”

He knew he could count on Penny - he came up with the wild ideas, she refined them. It’s why they worked so well together.

* * *

It’s been a few days, and no one’s come to the Palace except for them. Either Gareth isn’t spreading the word, or whoever they told didn’t dare to come anywhere near the Palace grounds. Simon couldn't blame them, not really. It did feel slightly wrong to squat in the Palace, but the Mage wasn’t doing anything with it, Princess Fiona wasn’t going to wage war over it, so, all in all, it was empty space, wasting away. That’s what Simon told himself as he and Penny made themselves comfortable here.

Without anyone to see, Simon spent his days revisiting his memories. His time here seemed like a lifetime ago, this world of the Pitch dynasty _was_ a lifetime ago. He found himself back in the Prince’s room – the toys were covered in dust and cobwebs, the curtains had holes in them, the carpet a muted red now. But one thing remained unchanged – the panel in the wall was intact and shut. It seemed no one ventured into the servants’ passages. Simon was the last person to close it, and since then no one’s opened it.

Then he heard something, another’s man’s voice humming a tune. Either they were due a haunting or there was someone else in the Palace. Simon ran back to their room to find Penny.

“Did you hear that?” Simon said, slightly out of breath.

“Yeah I did.”

“It sounds like it’s coming from the main hall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this! 
> 
> Thank you to my lovely beta  OtherWorldsIveLivedIn 


	5. ONCE UPON A DECEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Far away, long ago.  
> Glowing dim as an ember.

**BAZ**

Getting from Waterloo station to the Palace was a journey and a half. Baz walked the entire way, preferring aching feet over getting lost in the omnibus and ending up in Clapham or something. Which would’ve inevitably meant a longer walk or an even more expensive mistake.

At least he got to see more of London. Walking along the Thames was quite a scenic route, if only the water wasn’t green. Parliament was majestic in its gothic brilliance, one of the few buildings left unharmed during the Revolution. Honestly he was surprised the Mage didn’t obliterate it – it was opulent, austere and grand. Then again, it was easier to swap out the people than the build a new statement of power. 

Carriages and expensive American cars sped along the road, people kept their heads down, marching ahead with no regard for anyone or anything in their way. He did notice the infamous patrol though, men and women dressed in a specific shade of green were dotted around the streets. It seemed all the Mage did was replace Imperial guards with his own version, with a veneer of egalitarianism.

_They’re everywhere aren’t they?_

Baz, following the lead of other Londoners kept his head down as he meandered along the streets and the crowd. Then again, it’s hard to blend in and be inconspicuous when he had no true bearing as to where he was going and standing slightly taller than most also didn't help. He let his hair fall into his face, and hoped that bought him some anonymity, because being memorable with the Mage’s Men was the last thing he wanted to be.

Soon Baz found himself along a wide stretch of road, the Mall he believed, and the Palace slowly came into view. As he got closer he felt a pang of irritation. Sure, the Mage and the government hated the monarchy, but he didn’t expect the Palace to be left in such a state. A giant complex in the middle of the city, yet left abandoned to the ravages of time.

The gates that once kept the public away from the Imperial family were torn down, making for an easy entrance for Baz. There was extensive damage to one of the wings of the Palace, exposing what looked like a bedroom of sorts. All the doors and windows were boarded up, and what Baz assumed used to be white stone was now a depressing combination of beige, grey and green, stained by rain and exacerbated by the smog that poisoned the air.

He was sure if he looked around hard enough, he could find an entrance. After all, this man, Snow, was allegedly here, so he had to have gotten in somehow. He was sure his residence was as legitimate and lawful as these exit papers that Baz was after. But the Palace was huge, and Baz’s shoes were wet and his feet were aching. Settling on what looked like a boarded up doorway of sorts, Baz got his hands in between the spaces of the wood boards and pulled as hard as he could, leveraging all his body weight into it (which granted wasn’t that much to begin with). Eventually putting up his leg to get more purchase, he managed to dislodged an entire section of panels.

He did land flat on his arse, but no one was here to witness it, so did it _really_ happen?

Brushing himself off, Baz took a deep breath and stepped into the Palace. The moment he crossed the threshold he was immediately disorientated. It was strange, it was like stepping back into a half forgotten dream – his body was telling him this was all familiar, but he had no idea why that was the case.

Baz let his legs guide him around the Palace. It was haunting. He could feel the life that used to roam these halls, but with it, dread and desperation. Empty frames lined the halls – it seems that the Revolutionaries did what they could to erase the House of Pitch from memory. And it seemed in the process they swiped anything that wasn’t nailed down. Vases that were too big to carry they left behind, or ornaments too peculiar to fence remained, all now covered in cobwebs and dust The floor was littered with the occasional trinkets fallen from the pockets of looters as they ransacked the Palace.

Rounding a corner, he found himself in a grand room of sorts, maybe even a ballroom. Honestly he was gobsmacked. He’d never been anywhere as fancy as a Palace, but this room blew him away. Even in its dilapidated state, it exuded grandeur. He couldn’t imagine what parties like here would have been like, because, what else would they use a place like this for? If not to show off the wealth of Crown, why else would it be this big?

He stopped at the top of the grand staircase, there were impressions in the carpet, forming two squares.

_Was this the throne room?_

His eyes wandered up to the ceiling of the room. The fresco along it has long faded, but the chandeliers that surrounded it remained intact. It seemed that the looters didn’t get to this room, having had their fill in the hallways outside, probably. Along the tops of the wall, were yet more paintings, spared from destruction by virtue of being completely inaccessible.

Baz brushed it off though because what child hadn’t dreamed and fantasised about royal life and living in a sprawling Palace? But nonetheless, there was no one around, so there was no one to stop him from living _one_ of those childhood dreams.

He shrugged of his damp coat, folding it neatly on top of the beautifully carved bannister, and started to slowly descend the stairs. Baz was making his grand entrance to an imaginary ball, held in his honour. Once he reached the main floor, he straightened his blazer, and started humming a tune, a faint memory he had, one that he used to hum to himself when he couldn’t sleep (which, surprisingly, the other children found soothing as well).

He couldn’t explain why _this_ song was the first thing that came to his mind since he crossed the threshold…like a memory from a dream. As if someone, a long time ago, had lit a match inside him, and now all that was left from him to grasp at were embers, glowing dimly in his mind. Whatever these memories were, they were yearning to be remembered, fighting to light up the corners of his foggy, clouded mind.

Baz had no idea what he was doing but he closed his eyes and starting dancing. With how the ballroom stood now, it wasn’t hard to imagine what it’d be like during its prime. Polished marble floors, warm candlelight, reflecting and glittering against the paned windows that lined the length of the hall. He twirled around, dancing to nothing but his own voice, with no one other than an imaginary partner. (Handsome of course).

He made grand sweeping steps and spins as he moved across the ballroom. He could imagine the other attendees, dressed to the nines, figures dancing gracefully. He could feel the swell of an orchestra, following his own melody, which was a feat of his mind because he’s never even _seen_ an orchestra play.

He imagined taking the hand of his mother, a countess of someone of high rank, dancing elegantly, the object of envy and admiration for everyone that saw them. If only he remembered what she looked like, but he made do with a hazy figure in his mind.

Baz slowed, slowly opening his eyes, and looked out at the empty ballroom, the brilliance and golden sheen from his imagination gave way to the grey reality that was the room before him. Would it be improper for his mother to kiss his forehead as she went back to the other guests? Or was Baz too tall now, and it’d be for him to kiss her forehead.

It was uncharacteristically whimsical, but this whole debacle was built on whimsy, so he allowed himself to dream of an experience he never would have in his life. Orphans don’t end up in palatial spaces attending opulent balls, but he could allow himself to chase after a dream, if only for a moment.

And now the moment was over, and he had things to do. Baz was surprised at how far from the grand staircase he had gotten with just a few moments of senseless dancing. The sound of his shoes on the marble floor echoed throughout the empty Palace, then suddenly another set of footsteps burst into the room behind him

“Oi!” someone shouted, “What’re you doing here?”

Baz panicked and bolted down the length of the ballroom.

 _Shit_. _It’s the Mage’s Men._

He could hear the man gaining on him, but he’s reached the grand staircase, he just needed to grab his coat and he’d be out of here.

“Wait…Hey, stop! Just stop running.”

 _Fuck that_.

“We’re not with the Mage if that’s what you’re worried about,” another voice said, a woman, panting, “Just hold on a minute.”

Baz had one hand on his coat, trying to calm down his heart, with his back turned to the two of them. His eyes flickered to his left, the door he came in through was still open, but he probably couldn’t make it there in time if they were right behind him. He looked to his right, the door way was blocked by what looked like remnants of a throne, or two. He looked in front of him and was greeted by a large portrait of the Imperial family.

With nowhere really left to run, against his better judgment, he turned around. And came face to face with two people, around his age. The man was staring at him, mouth agape and eyes wide. They were so plainly blue, yet Baz found himself staring into them.

“How…how,” the man was stumbling over his words, “How did you…get in. Here?”

 _Looks like I might not be the only one who’s not supposed to be here_.

“Through the front door,” Baz said as confidently as he could.

The woman, several inches shorter than her...friend, Baz assumed, pulled down her glasses from her wild, big curls and in an instant she was wearing the same expression as the man.

“Oh my God.”

Feeling self conscious, he stood up a taller, using his height advantage to stare down at the pair of them, “Are you Simon Snow?”

“Depends,” the man said, a smirk cutting across his freckled face, his eyes crinkling slightly. Baz raised an eyebrow at him as he took one step toward him, closing the height difference between them. “Who’s asking?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thank you to my lovely beta [OtherWorldsLivedIn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn/pseuds/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn) for being my beta and being just as excited as I was about this blatant revisiting of the best song of the entire movie.


	6. AN IMPOSING IMPOSTOR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re looking for a family in Paris,” Simon added in quickly, “And his only family is in Paris.” Simon grinned at Baz again who looked less reluctant to tolerate it this time, “Ever consider the possibility?”
> 
> “That I could be royalty?”

**SIMON**

Simon was surprised they managed to catch up to the trespasser (well _other_ trespasser, besides them) given that he was more leg than man. And he was so glad he did. The moment their mystery man turned around, Simon’s mind blinked out. The resemblance was _uncanny_. Had Simon passed him on the street, he wasn’t sure he would’ve noticed it (he’d definitely notice how _pretty_ he was though). But, with him standing right next to the portrait of the Imperial Family, he was the spitting image of the prince. The same warm skin, shiny black hair, and with how thin he was, his bone structured made his cheekbones look higher and his face sharper, perhaps with a bit more weight he’d round out and look more like the late Empress. Most importantly, there was this _quality_ to him. Simon couldn’t quite put his finger on, but it made him stand out amongst the rest of the men he’s seen.

And that quality was what made him princely. Simon was fully aware that he not the actual prince, but for their purposes, that didn’t _strictly_ matter. In fact, it didn’t matter at all.

“Are you Simon Snow?”

_This is going to be interesting_

“Depends,” Simon struggled himself from grinning, because he could _feel_ their luck turning. Taking a step in closer, Simon attempted to even out the playing field (though he quickly realised there was no overcoming the height difference), “Who’s asking?”

“Baz.” He sounded confident and posh, but Simon knew a cheap suit when he saw one, because he’s had his fair share of them, Simon tuned him out and started circling the man, taking in his height, frame, the fact his legs seemed to go on forever. Because not only was he the perfect person to be their prince, but he was good looking enough that he _should_ be a prince. “Stop circling me. What were a vulture in another life?”

_I’m not sure if being princely means being this prickly. Then again…_

“Sorry you just look an awful lot like…”

“Yes, he’s Simon,” Penny said, interrupting him and giving him a stern look, “and I’m Penny. What was this about travel papers?”

“I need to get to Paris, and I was told you were to people to come to,” he said, slightly perturbed by Simon, “Gareth said to come here.”

_Gareth you earned every penny._

Simon knew how excited he was, jumpy, almost. “So, ugh, Baz was it?” he asked, “Is there a last name to that?”

From the way that Baz was narrowing his eyes at him, it would appear he’d much rather be talking to Penny, who was doing a much better job at staying calm. Also she didn’t just openly scope the guy out like an exhibit. Then again, being open and earnest made people think Simon had nothing to hide. And on this occasion, it might come in handy.

“No,” Baz finally said, “No last name.”

“Why’s that? Fall out with your family or something?”

“Don’t have one. I was found wandering at some station when I was eight years old. Alone.”

 _Way to walk right into that one you idiot_.

“Oh, I’m…I’m sorry,” was all Simon could manage, feeling a slight heat climbing up the back of his neck. So far he was doing a _shining_ job of getting this man to like him.

“And Paris fits into this how?” Penny asked, no doubt already forming a plan in her mind as to how to convince Baz, what lessons to teach him, how to correct his posture (which was remarkable for an orphan, honestly).

“It’s the only clue I have, about my family, my past,” his eyes flickering between Simon and Penny, “So, could you two help me?”

This seemed almost to good to be true, but who was Simon to question signs from the universe. And so, he gave Penny a look, and he began doing what he did best. “Funnily enough, we’re going to Paris too.”

“So you are going to help me?”

“Well, we only have three tickets,” Simon said, “and the third ticket is for him, Prince Tyrannus,” he pointed at the portrait.

“The lost prince?” Baz sounded suspicious, which even Simon thought was a fair reaction given the situation. Though, throughout the years, Simon has found that even the most cynical of people, if you sold them the right story at the right moment, would will themselves to believe the most ridiculous things.

“Well, our plan,” Penny started interrupting Simon, “is to reunite the prince with his aunt, Princess Fiona, who happens to be in Paris.”

Simon cocked his head, “You know…you do look like him, if the prince turned out to be a beanpole.”

Baz sneered at him, which provided a sufficient distraction for Penny to make her move, “The same grey eyes too,” she looped his arm around Baz’s and pulled him toward an alcove, where another portrait sat – of the prince and Princess Fiona. “You also have Malcolm’s hairline, and Natasha’s chin.”

“Get off of me you…,” Baz said, trying to pull away but Penny powered through, listing resemblance and feature. Simon learned a long time ago that Penny had her way of making people stay and listen through her own brand of brute force. So he just quietly followed behind. He knew she was overloading him with information and trying to confuse him, make him impressionable to whatever they were selling.

And today, they were selling a forgotten life, a different world.

“You’re the same age as him,” Penny continued. But Baz still looked cautious, which said something because Penny could out-talk and convince most people, even the intellectuals (who honestly were just sloppy drunks but Penny could still talk circles around them).

“Just…look at the portrait!” Simon snapped, gesturing at the portrait. A picture spoke a thousand words, and it seemed Baz needed even more to be convinced.

“You’re trying to tell me,” Baz said, turning to Simon having just got his arm back from Penny, “That I’m Prince Tyrannus.”

“Well…”

“Who, if alive, would be hunted by the Mage –”

“All I’m saying is that I’ve seen thousands of men,” Simon said which caused Baz to raise an eyebrow and Simon to blush, “And none of them looks as much like the prince than you do.”

“This,” Baz gestured at the both of them, “is a mistake. And I’m going to walk away now because whatever cloud you two are on, is another level.”

“Why _not_ though?” Penny said, “No one knows what happened to him, you don’t know what happened to you.”

“You’re looking for a family in Paris,” Simon added in quickly, “And _his_ only family is in Paris.” Simon grinned at Baz again who looked less reluctant to tolerate it this time, “Ever consider the possibility?”

“That I could be royalty?”

Simon nodded, eagerly, earnestly. Penny hummed, inviting the curiosity.

“Hardly. Not when your sleeping on a damp floor with a bunch of other children,” Baz scoffed, only to turn to look at the portrait, a much younger Tyrannus on Fiona’s lap, staring directly at the viewer, commanding authority and deference, “But I suppose every child has at one point, dreamed they were a little prince or princess. Better off, warmer, at least.”

They were _so_ close, Simon could feel whatever front Baz was putting up was wavering. “So – ”

“So yes, apologies, we’d love to help. But our third ticket _is_ for the prince,” Penny said, looping her arm around Simon’s and pulling him away whilst Baz looked wistfully at the portrait.

Simon had the sense to wait for Baz to be out of earshot before asking, “What are you doing?”

“What?”

“We could tell him about our plan!” Simon said as quietly as he could, though, with how desperate he was to get Baz on board, it probably wasn’t quiet enough.

“Si there’s absolutely _zero_ reason for him to know,” Penny whispered, “He just wants to get to Paris. No point splitting the reward between the three of us.” Simon was about to protest, but Penny put a finger to his lips, “Listen, if we actually get our hands on the 10 million, I don’t think Baz would be treated any worse. In fact he’d be set for life.”

“But…” Simon stuttered, “We kinda need him _with_ us for _any_ of it to happen.”

“Yes. But we have to let him come to us,” Penny looked at him as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“You saw him and his whole…deal,” Simon said, “He’s too proud to do that.” Penny just started walking again, slower this time and held out three fingers.

_3_

_2_

_1_

“Snow, wait.”

 _I really should listen to Penny more_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I once again thank my beta [OtherWorldsLivedIn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn/pseuds/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn) for their wonderful advice.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter!


	7. IN THE DARK OF THE NIGHT...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was his city, his country.
> 
> He refused to have anything come close to taking it away from him.
> 
> Especially not by a spoilt brat who had the world given to him.

**THE MAGE**

It’s been a hard decade, but he knew to bring about change, a difficult, long and painful revolution was needed. The country had grown complacent in their decadence and inequality – it was sick, and it was up to him to administer the remedy. When news broke of the demise of the House of Pitch, it only made sense for those responsible to step up and be the stewards of this mess of a state without a leader.

That was the mandate he had when he came to power, and that mandate was weakening as his policies failed to live up to expectation. But what the people didn’t know was that it wasn’t _his_ fault his wide-sweeping social reforms weren’t working, it was the _people_ who were to blame: unenthusiastic and lazy, wanting changes without actually changing. This was why he needed tougher measures, not only to provide the law and order this country needed, but to silence any who questioned his rule.

These people threatened not only him, but the peace and security he had delivered through an iron fist. He knew it, but what was he to do to help a country that didn’t want to help itself?

No one likes being the villain, but for Davy, he didn’t mind. History would see him as a hero for the people in a time of need. The representative of equality, the one who destroyed the old guard and ridded the country of the cancer that was the House of Pitch from their proud nation.

So it boggled his mind as to why people were _still_ fighting to bring back a world where one’s fate was decided from birth. And from what he had gleaned from the thousands of reports he received each day about the usurpers and dangers to society, that sentiment was growing. His team of politicians, councils and supporters were urging him to _lighten up_ – but being soft was what got the Pitches blown up.

What was most disturbing was the preposterous claim that the little prince still lived, and that he would restore the Pitch name and bring back the dynasty. Fuelled by the Bitch of Paris and her delusional reward for the return of her nephew. It was these peddlers of falsehoods that were the most dangerous, and the ones that needed to… _disappear_.

And thankfully, his Men have become more and more efficient at finding these people.

There was a knock on the door, and Davy prayed it was something useful. He’s been drowning in petty reports and the bureaucracy his team deemed necessary to keep the country going. Inconveniences the lot of them.

“Come in.”

Two of his Men entered, Stainton and some new recruit (Stephen?). Davy had little time to care for such details. Not when he’s trapped in this stuffy room forcing others to push pens instead of doing anything productive. He longed for the day he could bypass the red tape and make his word law – if the people missed the Pitches so much, why not give them what they want?

“Sir!”

Davy just looked at them from behind his desk, fingers gently rubbing circles around his temples. After an uncomfortable silence, Davy grew impatient and snapped, “Are you two just going to stand there or do you have something to report?”

“Sir,” Stainton said, “We found another Imperial sympathiser, carrying contraband.”

Davy raised an eyebrow as Stainton placed a bloodied belt buckle on his desk. It was a garish, oversized and, even if it wasn’t the Imperial insignia, Davy couldn’t imagine any occasion that warrants such an ugly belt. Granted, this was very much contraband, but the Mage’s Men – not the muscle that fancy themselves forces of law and order – were not for small indiscretions like this.

“Is there anything more to this sympathiser or are we now beating up people who dress terribly as well?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. If he sounded disinterested, it’s because he was. Very much so.

“Uh, he…” he stammered, “Uh…didn’t say anything more.”

Davy looked at the bloody buckle again, and sighed before getting up. He picked up the belt and just shook his head at his subordinates.

“When will you little boys learn that beating answers out of people,” he said while wrapping the belt around his hands, “doesn’t work?” And he finished his point by backhanding Stainton with the very belt buckle they’ve brought to him.

Stainton staggered backwards, but wisely, clutched his cheek with his hand in silence. Satisfied that he was heard and understood, Davy waved at the other one (Elliot. It had to be Elliot, wait. No. Elliot is the one that got gunned down three months ago), “Bring them in.” Davy found it almost amusing how fast the poor boy ran out to fetch their prisoner, if only these were the ones representing the regime on the streets.

_Is it so hard to have a competent group of enforcers?_

Before long the Other One dragged in a man, his face beaten to a pulp, bruises and scratches forming around his neck, as if they had wrapped the offending belt around his neck. Literally wringing him for information. Davy leant on his desk, trying to look as open as possible, if anything to stop the poor sod from crying.

“So, my men here told me they found you with this,” Davy said, dropping the belt buckle onto the floor, causing the man to jump when the heavy metal hit the wooden floorboards.

“I’m sorry Sir. I’m not…I didn’t know, I…” he was shaking, crying, but Davy had no patience for theatrics, so he waited for the desperation to dissolve. “Please believe me…I didn’t know the symbol was Imperial or anything. I just thought … it looked nice.”

 _A coward and tasteless_.

“I do believe,” he said, ignoring the looks Stainton and the Other One was sending him, “that you were unwittingly set up as a distraction.”

“I…I…”

“What is your name?” Davy crouched down, leaning in slightly, forcing his brand of kindness and understanding onto the crying heap of a man, and with it, one final chance to share what he knew.

 _Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile_.

“Gareth.”

“Gareth,” he repeated, “now I’m sure if you knew anything you’d tell me, correct?”

Davy could see Gareth was wavering, frantically searching his mind for something, _anything_ to say. Given any chance for survival, people sold each other out – friends, family, colleagues – their network of informants wouldn’t be so successful if it not for people like _Gareth_. Shame he didn’t know that no matter what he said, the outcome for him was going to be the same.

“Simon Snow!” Gareth suddenly said, “Simon Salisbury. I don’t know which name he goes by these days. But…he was saying he found the Prince.”

“The Prince?” Davy would admit his interest was piqued, but he felt concern about the direction this was going.

“Tyrannus. Simon’s been looking for him, and now he’s found him,” Gareth blurted out, volunteering everything without Davy having to lay a hand on him, “They’re going to Paris.”

Smoothing down his moustache, Davy waved towards the Other One to _deal_ with Gareth, who as expected was kicking and screaming as he was dragged out of the office. This was troubling. It was one thing to let the rumours fester, because it was nothing but a rumour. A fantasy. The persistence of the rumour also meant that Davy didn’t have to deal with accusations of him murdering _a child_ for power.

But if what Gareth said was true, then this fantasy becomes a fairy tale. The displaced Prince Tyrannus returns, alive and well, to claim back his kingdom. His “rightful place” as the monarch. And he had no doubt that if that Bitch in Paris got her hands on this alleged Prince – the real one – there’d be no doubt she’d return with a vengeance.

“Stainton,” he said, , “Look into this for me would you? Bring…” Davy gestured vaguely at the door.

“Stephen, sir?”

“Yes him, and also,” kicking the belt on the floor towards him, “Don't be so heavy handed. We’d look bad if word got out.”

He gave his salute and Davy heard him muttering, “It’s not like anyone we bring back here lives to leave anyway.”

But that was the point, if these people were destine to leave in body bags and settle into unmarked graves, then why should he, or anyone, expend more energy than absolutely necessary.

Now, this Simon Snow and his prince, they were the kind of people worth every bit of energy. Staring into the dark of the night, Davy looked out into London, the lights of the street and homes hidden under a heavy layer of smog.

This was his city, his country.

He refused to have anything come close to taking it away from him.

Especially not by a spoilt brat who had the world given to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoyed writing this chapter way more than I should. 
> 
> Once again thank you to my lovely, stunning, Good Person of a beta, [OtherWorldsLivedIn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn/pseuds/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn). 
> 
> Y'all won't believe the amount of typos this had (I'd make a great Dictator...was that a pun? Yes.)


	8. OFF THE RAILS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Another thing to add to this questionable regime – everything is in fucking green.” And with that she was out the cabin. To where? Baz wasn’t sure. He felt Snow’s hand on the small of his back gently pushing him out the cabin.

**BAZ**

The train was rammed with people, but somehow with Penny’s elbows and Snow’s…flailing being, they managed to shuffle and push their way through to their little cabin on their train. Plush red cushions, wooden window frames and some fancy electric lights. It _looked_ expensive, and they definitely stood out against the rest of the passengers, all heading the same way. Evidently, the plan was to take the train to Dover then sail into France, and get to Paris from the docks. Granted, it was a simple plan, simple enough that even Baz could have put it together, but there was something nagging at the back of his mind that these two weren’t as put together (or indeed, legitimate) as they seemed.

For one, they had very little belongings with them. Had they been regular people, Baz wouldn’t be surprised because no one owned much these days, but if they were working with the Princess, he expected _more_. Then again, that would be tantamount to exposing themselves as supporters of the Crown, which was practically a death sentence.

But Baz didn’t mind that so much, after all, they did pay for his travel all the way to Paris. What he _did_ mind was Snow, particularly, how much he grinded on Baz’s gears. Even by Baz’s standards, Snow was rough, brash and loud – the type of child that Baz _hated_ back at the orphanage. Those happy sorts that made it a point to show off just how _alive_ they were, carefree and unrestrained in their feelings. Wearing one’s heart one one’s sleeve was the easiest way to show your hand to people. Though it wouldn’t surprise Baz if Penny was the one that held the cards and Snow was just the pretty face of it all.

Speaking of his pretty face, this was yet another factor as to why Snow got on Baz’s nerves. In isolation, everything about Snow was plain and average. His eyes were a dull and common shade of blue; his smile was slightly crooked and he had a tendency to have this lopsided grin that made him look foolish and; the countless freckles and moles that covered every inch of skin (that Baz saw) made him look like any other man in this country.

But somehow, in combination, Baz could not find it in him to think of Snow as anything but _annoyingly_ attractive. The entirety of Simon Snow was greater than the sum of his parts. Bright like the sun, shining and clear, qualities that were amplified by the perpetual grey that surrounded London. Like a beacon, a beacon that Baz hated he wanted to respond to.

Baz would admit, he was not the most egregious, but that wasn’t a fault of his, it’s just his personality. Maybe Snow and he were just fundamentally incompatible as people. Which would be fine, if Baz wasn’t mildly disappointed by the fact that _this_ was first man his age that he had found attractive: _Snow_ of all people.

Much like the reforms that decriminalised homosexuality that came out of nowhere from the Mage, this attraction he felt also came out of nowhere, and frankly, he had no idea what to do with it except act like a prick.

It was convincing because he’s heard on more than one occasion Snow complaining to Penny just how prickly Baz was, but the way she brushed Snow off made Baz fear that it was Penny he needed to convince. The woman was fiercely intelligent, being able to not only understand Snow’s thought process, but somehow make a sensible plan out of it. She was the one to point out that for exit papers, Baz also needed travel documentation. This morning, without so much as a word of explanation, she presented to Baz a passport in all its blue glory – Basil Gray. When he asked her why she merely said, “the Picture of Dorian Gray had a character named Basil. And, you’re Baz.”

They settled into their cabin, Penny with a book, Snow with a box of pastries and Baz with nothing but the view of the other platforms and the crowds. Soon, there was the familiar jerk of the train as it started leaving the station. Baz was a bundle of nerves and excitement, the future of Paris that had once seemed so far away was merely a few hours away from becoming a reality. Out of habit, he took out his necklace and started absentmindedly playing with it as the view of London slowly disappeared.

“Baz,” Penny said, looking up from her book, “No fidgeting.”

“Yeah, right. You’re meant to a prince. Nothing but refined elegance,” Snow said in between mouthfuls.

“Well, I certainly won’t be learning from you,” Baz said with an eyebrow raised, pointedly looking at Snow, who was currently sat back and bouncing one knee – truly the antithesis of refined elegance. “How do _you_ know what princes are supposed to be like anyway?” He knew it wasn’t the smartest or wittiest thing to say, but Snow’s legs were spread, and it seemed his trousers were struggling against his thighs. And he was about to leave the country, potentially forever. In other words, Baz was distracted.

“I make it my business to know,” Snow said cockily, grinning at him, “So yeah, stop fidgeting.”

“Snow,” Baz said, attempting to sound sincere, “Do you really think I’m royalty then?”

“Yeah.”

“Then,” Baz said dropping his tone and now glaring at Snow, “stop bossing me around.”

“Well done Baz,” Penny said with a small chuckle, quickly hiding her face away in the documents she was leafing through, their _exit papers_.

Snow looked betrayed and after a beat, he stood up in a huff, “I’m going to find some food or tea or whatever because fuck this.” He stepped out the cabin and shut the cabin doors with slightly too much force. Baz rolled his eyes and turned back to the view outside, which had immediately cleared and become less depressing as London got further and further away.

 _Industry was a mistake_.

“Leave him be, he means well,” Penny said, eyeing the cabin doors.

“I know,” Baz said quietly, “But he makes it _so_ easy.”

“He does, doesn’t he?”

Penny cleared her throat and Baz turned his head to see in her holding out several books, mostly popular fiction as well as a guide to the French language. Baz took them gratefully, “Figured you might get bored. And if we’re going to Paris, maybe learning French won’t be too bad an idea.”

“Thank you Penny,” he said, “And I mean it, to you and Snow.”

“Let me know if you want to practice, maybe learning French would help round out your accent.”

“My accent.” It wasn’t a question, but more of a statement.

“You do sound posh, don’t get me wrong,” Penny said quickly, “But not quite royal posh.”

 _No time like the present then._ _If I’m stranded in Paris, I’ll need to know how to beg for change._

Baz flipped open the book on French and dove right in. It should surprise no one that an orphan from Hampshire never had the opportunity to learn French. English and maths, Possibelf made a point to teach rigorously, so that the children could have a shot at a better life, but French was never considered. That said, the instructions were clear and concise and Baz was picking it up a lot faster than he expected. Certain words and phrases would come to him naturally in his mind, but the words still came out clunky as he quietly murmured away in his seat with his nose in the book.

 _Evidently I’m a natural at the French language_.

Though it wasn’t exactly a page turner, Baz found himself making excellent progress through the book. So lost in conjugating verbs and tenses, he barely registered when the train pulled to a stop. He did notice that Snow had reappeared, looking slightly less huffy but still sneaking periodic glares at him. Somewhere along the train, he could hear faint shouting and it seemed it was turning into a bit of a commotion. Baz was about to put down his book to take a look, but Penny beat him to it.

“I’ll go take a look, hopefully whatever it is won’t delay the train too much,” she said as she stepped out, leaving Snow and him alone in the cabin. Baz kept his book held up to his face, blocking all eye contact with Snow. Consciously or otherwise, Snow had turned to breathing _excessively_ loud to wind Baz up.

 _Bloody mouth breather_.

“You’re breathing Snow,” Baz said bluntly, “Loudly.”

Another loud sigh draws Baz’s attention, making him put down his book. Snow was leaning forward, arms on his knees, “Look Baz, I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot – ”

“I agree,” he responded, interrupting Snow, “And I appreciate your apology.”

“Ap…apology?” Simon said, shocked, flabbergasted, “Who said anything about an apology?”

“Snow, just stop talking. You’re wholly upsetting.”

“Fine, I will,” he folded his arms like a petulant child.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

The commotion was still going on outside, but in their little cabin, the silence was palpable. Baz had given up the pretence of reading and was just staring out the window at the other platforms, pointedly not looking at Snow. Except he could see Snow out of the corner of his eye doing the same thing, bouncing his knee – nervous and angsty.

And because Snow’s nerves were infectious, Baz had to distract himself before he starting chewing on what’s left of his little pendant, “You going to miss it?”

“What? You talking?”

“No,” Baz snapped his head toward Snow before gesturing at the window, “England, the United Kingdom.”

At that, Snow shrugged, “There’s never been much for me here, or anywhere, really.”

“But it’s your home,” Baz said quietly, wistfully and wholly unguarded. He was almost afraid if he were to speak louder the moment would break, whatever this moment was.

“Was it a home to you?” Snow said, leaning back into the seat, looking at him head on. One thing Baz had learned was that Snow treated almost everything as a challenge, a question that had to be answered. While it initially felt like he was the type to just rush in and muddle his way through, Baz was starting to see that even Snow had his softer moments.

And this was one of them.

So Baz chewed on his cheek, trying to find something in between the truth and sarcastic; ultimately, realising that this might be one of the few honest conversations they may ever have.

“No. It was a place I once lived.”

“Precisely,” Snow said with a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eye. A platitude? Or was it pity? Or empathy for Baz, empathy for that feeling of rootless drifting, waiting for an inevitable _something_ to ground them. “What we do have, is Paris.”

“We?” Baz asked, risking a small questioning grin.

“Well, until…” Snow trailed off, gesticulating in the air as if the words would somehow take shape before him, “Until we find your family.”

“Right,” Baz said, not quite sure what to do with himself or what to say to continue the conversation. His finger played with the spine of the book in his lap while Snow chewed the endless supply of candies and lollies he had on his person.

Snow was about to offer him one when Penny burst into the cabin, slightly dishevelled and a ball of worry, “We need to get off this train, now.”

“What?”

Before Penny could explain a screech filled the air and the train jolted, slowly but very surely, leaving the station. Baz expected Penny to panic, but instead, she just grabbed her case and without speaking, Snow followed suit.

“What’s wrong?” Baz said, cautiously getting up.

Penny held out her passport, “Another thing to add to this questionable regime – everything is in fucking green.” And with that she was out the cabin. To where? Baz wasn’t sure. He felt Snow’s hand on the small of his back gently pushing him out the cabin.

The moment Baz stepped out he saw the problem – a small group of the Mage’s Men were checking documentation. They didn’t make it far down the corridor before someone called out to them.

“You there! Both of you! Stop. We need to see your documents.”

He cursed his height and his evident inability to keep a low profile as he slowed to a stop, feeling Snow bump into him. In the distance, he saw Penny’s head of curls disappear behind a door into the next carriage.

His heart was hammering in his chest. Objectively he knew _he_ didn’t do anything wrong – but he was very much holding a fake passport right now and it didn’t take much for the Mage’s Men to cart anyone away to their many dark prisons.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

“Oi, give me your book.”

_What?_

Baz tensed up when he felt Snow’s fingers brush against his back again, Baz could feel him leaning in, his breathe tickling the back of his neck. Snow’s voice was low and quiet, barely audible to Baz despite how close they were. Afraid his voice might betray just how terrified he was, all Baz could manage was a soft nod and hum of agreement. He felt a soft tug and realised Snow was trying to reach for his French book. Angling it so that Snow could reach it without sudden movement, he prayed the man had a plan, because between of the two of them, Baz suspected he had less run-ins with the arbiters of arbitrary law and order.

Snow gently lifted the book from his hands, and Baz still had no idea where this was going. He chanced a look behind him after heard a deep sigh from Snow. The Mage’s Men were closing in on them, and Snow was all too calm about it.

“You two. Papers. Now!”

Snow attempted to raise his eyebrows at Baz, and despite the pure comedy of _that_ look on him, Baz understood the message. With a small nod, Snow grinned at him and started speaking the Mage’s Men “Absolutely gentlemen, here you go!”

And he turned around and threw the book down the corridor, hitting the leader of the group square in the face. Snow pushed on his back and just shouted, “Run!”

Baz didn’t need to be told twice.

He bolted down the corridor, taking long strides, jumping over toppled cases, weaving through the small clusters of passengers that have gathered. Not wanting to be involved, no one gets in their way – though the occasional passenger does contemplate it, only to be scared off by Baz’s threatening scowl. There were significantly more sounds of people being pushed aside and crashing behind him, presumably Snow was not as _nimble_ as he was.

They slipped into the next carriage, but the Mage’s Men were relentless. More and more passengers stepped out of their cabins to see what was going on. Noticing several families, an idea crossed Baz’s mind. With virtually nothing to lose at this point, he shouted at the top of his voice, “Everyone, they’re trying to take away the children!”

With the perfectly timed entrance of the Mage’s Men just as he finished his announcement, everyone lost it. The ensuing pandemonium created the perfect amount of chaos for the two of them to continue pushing through whilst they let the crowds slow down the Mage’s Men.

“Through here!” a voice shouted. Baz could just about make out Penny waving frantically at them. Turning back to make sure Snow was still with him, they quickly ran in after her, slamming the door shut and bolting up every lock they could.

Baz was out of breath, Snow was panting and Penny was swallowing heavily. They exchanged looks at each other, and he isn’t sure who starts first but they all fall into a fit of laughter. Nothing about this was _funny_ , but he couldn’t stop. Was it the absurdity of the situation? Was it a bodily reaction to the sheer amount of stress he was just under? Was the wonderful, hearty and full sound that was Snow’s laugh making him feel even more disorientated?

 _Yes. To all of it_.

Their reprieve was short-lived. Just as Penny was wiping tears from her eyes, they heard shouting from the other side of the door. Banging and the locks rattling against the wood. It wasn’t a question of _if_ the door would hold, but _for how long_.

Any laughter they had died in their throats.

Baz looked to Snow, who looked to Penny. She was scanning around the cargo hold, and eventually settled on something in the distance. She marched on putting her glasses away. Baz followed her line of sight and his jaw hit the floor.

 _She can’t be bloody serious_.

Penny was standing by the sliding doors of the train carriage, “We jump.”

Baz leapt to his feet, “That’s insane, we’ll die just from the fall.”

“You think you’d fare better with them?” Penny gestured to the banging door that looked increasingly precarious. He was still hesitant, but Snow and Penny were already working on the locks and there was this look on Snow’s face. It was hardened and determined, that streak of stubbornness that Baz has grown fondly irritated by.

The locks were undone, but the door still wouldn’t budge, seemingly frozen shut.

 _Sink or swim, we’re in this together_.

Resolving to survive this ordeal, he walked over and started pushing with Penny and Snow, throwing his whole body into it. His shoes were slippery, but he dug his feet in to create as much traction as possible. And before he knew it, the door flew open, unleashing upon them cold winter winds and the English countryside zooming past them. The chill was unforgiving, Baz and Penny immediately pulled their coat tighter, whilst Snow relished in the freshness, his own coat billowing in the wind.

“Looks like this is our stop gentlemen!” Penny shouted over the wind, picking up her case. Baz picked up one case, whilst Snow held onto his, and with Penny looping her arms around theirs, they stared out into the field of white snow.

“Three, two, one!”

And they jumped from the train, tumbling into the snow as the train shot past behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was such a joy to write and I hope you enjoyed it too!
> 
> Thank you again to my lovely beta [OtherWorldsLivedIn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn/pseuds/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn) who has made me lazy by being so good.


	9. If He Could Learn To Do It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not going to lie,” Baz spat out the word, “Is this what you were doing? Pumping me with information so I can pass some stupid test?”
> 
> “You’re not lying,” Penny said quickly, “you said so yourself, you don’t remember anything. We’re just trying plug some of those gaps.”

**SIMON**

Sometimes the best-laid plans go awry, and the only thing to do would be to pick up the pieces and continue on. It also meant that sometimes the simplest plans are the best plans. To avoid the pursuit of the Mage’s Men, they have decided to walk the remainder of the way to Dover, stopping in low rate inns and, where possible, looking for a caravan or the like that was travelling their way to hitch a ride.

Rinse and repeat until they get to Dover.

It was more long-winded –and much more time consuming – but this meant they now had time to teach Baz the entire history of the Pitch dynasty, as well as how to act like a prince. Simon had secretly hoped that these _lessons_ would somehow wear down Baz’s (inflated) confidence, but the bastard was bloody flawless at everything he did. Be it dining etiquette, titles and rank, historic battles, Baz took to it like a fish to water.

 _He doesn’t need more to fuel his ego_.

He had vented to Penny about it, but she just rolled her eyes at him, “You’re the one that said he’s the perfect person for the prince. And now he’s _too_ good?”

“That’s not what I’m saying, but, argh,” he threw his head back, happy that Baz wasn’t in ear shot right now, “It’s just infuriating.”

“Honestly, I’m glad he’s a quick learner,” Penny said, taking a sip of her tea: a reward for the trek they made through the snow that had turned to sludge. “Saves me a lot of time.”

They had spent the evening teaching Baz posture, to straighten his back. It seemed that being a bean pole had left him with a soft hunch, probably because he was so used to having to crouch to get through doors. He’s been going up and down the little hallway in their tiny room with a book balanced on his head. A trick Simon learned when he was a child because servants had to hold their head high and never slouch, unless bowing to the Imperial family.

“Not that I don’t appreciate these lessons,” Baz said once he completed another flawless lap (which with his legs meant three steps, really), “but I have to ask – why?”

Simon was about to deflect but Penny just pushed him back, “Well, as much as we would like to simply present you to Princess Fiona and that be it, there is someone _else_ we need to see first.”

“Penny…”

“What do you mean?” Baz narrowed his eyes at them, and Simon felt a chill go down his spine. Baz wasn’t the type to have a temper. Instead he channelled his anger into withering looks and sneers. And this look was _definitely_ withering.

“Well, we have to see Ebeneza first,” Penny said slowly, “Close confidant of the Princess, and _she_ is the one that decides whether or not we, you, get to meet the Princess.”

 _And there it is_.

“This is ludicrous,” Baz snapped, “No one said I had to _prove_ to _anyone_ I’m the Prince.”

“I mean how else –”

“I’m not going to _lie_ ,” Baz spat out the word, “Is this what you were doing? Pumping me with information so I can pass some stupid test?”

“You’re not lying,” Penny said quickly, “you said so yourself, you don’t remember anything. We’re just trying plug some of those gaps.”

Baz just stared at the both of them, muttered something (was that _in French?_ ) and stormed out the room. Penny was staring at the door with her mouth open and Simon was pinching the bridge of his nose.

He understood why Baz was upset, he really did, because as far as he was concerned, Penny and Simon genuinely believed he was the Prince, and that was enough. He knew this would blow up in their face at some point, but he didn’t expect it to happen on _this_ side of the Channel.

Simon stood up to follow Baz but Penny grabbed her by the wrist. He rolled his eyes and said a touch too quickly, “I’ll go get him back.”

“Simon, what we need is to get him back in here, not start a shouting match,” she said sternly.

He knew she was right, so he let her go. It took him a full minute after she closed the door to run out of patience and followed after her anyway.

She could do the talking, Simon would just sit somewhere in the background and listen.

* * *

It seemed Penny has found Baz, and they were both huddled up together in front of the fireplace. Simon knew if he sat with them he’d just ruin things by complaining about the heat, so he found an empty corner close to them and sat down, straining to listen.

“I know you don’t want to lie,” Penny said, “but I think you’re probably more terrified that you’ll fail to convince them.”

“What if she is the only family I have left, and she doesn’t believe me,” Baz said bitterly.

“That’s what we’re trying to prevent,” Penny explained, “You’ve got to admit you’re picking everything up really fast.”

All he had in response was a scoff.

“No,” Penny said slowly, “It’s because you _know_ these things already. We’re just…reminding you.”

“I might just be naturally good at everything.”

 _Egotistical maniac_.

 _How princely_.

“Have I ever told you about my family?” Penny said.

“Between the etiquette and history lessons, no it hasn’t come up,” Baz said, sarcasm dripping with each word.

“My parents were advisors to the Crown,” Penny said, “When the Revolution happened we lost everything too.”

“Are they – ”

“They’re fine, we’re all fine. We took our mother’s name, Parikh and went into hiding,” Penny said, “Then I went to London for work and met Simon.”

_Penny, please don’t tell me you’re about to blow the lid on this whole thing._

“Baz,” Penny said, reaching out to him as if he were a wounded animal, “We want to help you. And we believe you’re the Prince, so _let us_ help you.”

Her eyes darted towards Simon and he knew it was his cue to come in, though he wasn’t sure how to close the deal. He didn’t expect her to try the _emotional_ route with Baz. Draping an arm over Baz’s chair, he leaned forward with a smile, “So, you ready to become Prince Tyrannus yet?”

“Ugh.”

“Simon!” Penny said at the same time, swatting his arm

Ignoring their reaction, Simon pressed on, “Baz, listen, there’s nothing left back there for you, for anyone us. If we want a future, it’ll have to be in Paris.”

He could see the cogs inside Baz’s head turning, but Simon had no idea what he was thinking. His face was still hardened, his brows a knot in between his temples, lips pulled firmly into a tight frown. Their plan needed him more than anything, but Simon needed him to believe they needed _each other_.

“Where were we Penny?” Baz said nonchalantly, not even acknowledging Simon’s words. Penny just smiled at him and gave him a heavy book.

“Keep that on your head on your way back up to the room.”

Despite a slight wobble, Baz made it all the way up the stairs with the book balanced _perfectly_ on his head. And as irritating as it was to witness, Simon couldn’t help but be impressed with how well Baz maintains his composure. Which was probably why Simon could never get a rise out of him.

“Did your mother teach you this as a child?” Baz asked, turning to Penny.

“Nope,” Penny said, “Simon did.”

Baz’s head whips around and the book crashes to the floor and narrowly missing his feet, “Snow?”

“I had to learn it for work.”

Baz looked like someone had just revealed the secrets of the universe, “But…you’re a bumbling mess. You can barely walk down a flight of stairs without clipping an elbow.”

“Exactly,” Penny said with a small laugh, “If he could learn to do it, you can learn to do it.”

“Something in you knows it,” Simon said.

* * *

They managed to find a caravan heading toward Dover, which meant they were to arrive at the harbour just before the next ship to Paris was due to depart.

After spending days walking the English countryside, they were more than happy to pay for the luxury of being carted to their destination.

On the other hand, now that they were all crammed into the back of his wagon. WBaz on one side and Penny with Simon on the other, Simon had to spend the next couple of hours looking directly at Baz’s face, or crane his neck to look at more trees and fields.

Looking at Baz now, Simon almost regretted fixing his posture. Not only was he taller than him to start with, but now he sat like he was looking down on _everyone_. Or maybe he just looked down on Simon.

Penny had said on multiple occasions that he was becoming obsessed with Baz, and potentially sabotaging their whole scheme. Granted, Simon knew he was picking fights, but that was because Baz made it his mission to act like a smug prat.

Like right now, as they went through the _endless_ family tree of the Grimm-Pitch clan – somehow, despite the sheer number of people in it, Prince Tyrannus would be the sole surviving heir of both House – Baz had just memorised the entirety of the Pitch side of the family and was proper proud of it. He was practically preening when Penny complimented him, followed by a triumphant return of that smug look of his whenever he did well.

 _Keen bean. Know-it-all_.

“Here you go, the Grimms,” Penny said, handing him another long list of names. Simon was glad for the prep she had put into this, because honestly he wouldn’t have put thought to. But that’s why they work so well together.

Baz was skimming over the list, then suddenly an actual _smile_ spread across his face, and Simon felt something shift in his stomach. Evidently he was so accustomed by the sneers and snarls from Baz that he was now having a bodily reaction to seeing anything remotely _pleasant_ in Baz’s face.

Which was a shame because it looked good on him – the smile.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Simon asked, “What you smiling about?”

“My cousins,” Baz said still smiling, “Dev.”

“What about him?”

“I remember he had a cat, a ginger cat,” he said, his necklace back in his mouth.

Simon was gobsmacked, because Prince Tyrannus and his cousin Dev were the nightmare duo. Wild and creative, they terrorised the kitchens (and the other servants). But Simon remembered the feral beast that was that cat (Niall? Neil?) clawing at Simon when Dev got involved in one of his usual spats with the Prince.

Simon watched as Baz continued to muse over the list, sufficiently distracted before he leant over to Penny, “Did you tell him that?”

“No,” Penny sounded confused as well, which only validated _his_ confusion of the situation.

 _I need to get to the bottom of this_.

Before he could push Baz further, the caravan came to a sudden stop sending most of their belongings flying. Simon bent down to start gathering up the loose sheets of paper and books that had fallen down, and on his way back up he felt his head hit something and a very painful sounding crunch that followed.

“Fucking hell!” Baz shouted, “You broke my fucking nose.”

Simon winced at the damage – blood streaming from Baz’s nose, and a few drops dripped down onto his shirt. He looked positively murderous.

“It…it was an accident,” Simon said quietly, recoiling slightly from Baz. Not because he was afraid of him (Baz could do with a punch to the face), but because of the emotional whiplash that came from it.

Simon hadn’t realised until now how much he preferred it when Baz smiled.

_What?_

* * *

Despite their best efforts (well, Penny and Baz’s best efforts), the shirt was ruined. Thankfully they didn’t get too many odd looks when boarding the ship. Frankly, Simon was just glad they managed to make it aboard with next to no questions, and were finally back on track with their plan.

The more he thought about it, the more he started to suspect that Baz may not be _just_ an orphan. The chances of him _actually_ being the Prince were astronomical. But _someone_ had to be him, he _had_ to be out there. Who’s to say he didn’t walk right into Simon’s life just when he needed him most?

Just like how Simon showed up when the Prince needed someone most.

Penny was off somewhere sorting out some trouble with the rooms or something, and Baz was leaning against the railing, staring out into the harbour. Simon took a moment to truly look at Baz, without the scheme, without any royal intrigue involved.

Just Baz.

Simon had never seen someone’s expression change so rapidly, and with it his entire demeanour. Perhaps it was because Baz was so used to not giving anything away. Should that mask fall, people would find out there was a human being behind it, capable of feeling pained and bruised, and actively seeking the small successes bit by bit.

With the sunset behind him, Baz looked more than regal, he looked divine, golden. The waning light brought warmth into his steely grey eyes, and for the first time since their meeting, it made Baz look soft. He was doing his best to keep his hair tucked behind his ear but the sea breeze had other ideas. Simon liked it, the way his hair was loose and framing his face.

Realising he was now outright staring at the man, Simon cleared his throat and made his way over to Baz.

“Hey.”

“Hm?” Baz said, “What is it Snow?”

“Uh,” Simon stammered, “Sorry about your nose,” and after a pause, “and your shirt.”

He just scoffed at Simon, before turning back to look at the sea, “You will be.”

“That a threat?”

“Yes,” Baz grinned at him, “I’ll have you drawn and quartered for assaulting the Crown.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Simon said, bumping against Baz’s shoulder softly, “You can borrow one of mine, when we meet Ebb, it might be a bit loose but I’m sure you’ll look great.”

“Was that a compliment?”

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

They were looking at each other, and despite the slight bruise forming, Simon saw the faintest of smiles, just the corners of his lips, up turned.

“Hey you two, we have a problem,” Penny called from a distance.

“What is it?”

“There’s been a bit of a mix up with the rooms,” Penny said, running her hands through her hair, “We have two rooms, but only two beds.”

“But there’s three of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a couple days late...had to take a bit of a break because life (and also Cyberpunk 2077).
> 
> Thank you for my lovely beta [OtherWorldsLivedIn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn/pseuds/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn) who reassured me that taking a break is A-Okay.


	10. DIZZY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snow was looking into his eyes, backlit by the final rays of light of the day – it was more than his heart could take.
> 
> But it made him feel alive, it thrilled him; awakening something in him that he had never felt before.
> 
> And it was such a wonderful feeling.

**BAZ**

_There’s only one bed_.

The cabin was small, the bed looked like it could barely fit either of them. The walls of the cabin were simply pleated metal, and they were unfortunately allocated a room with no windows. Once the door closed, it felt like they were in a different plane of existence, a world that consisted of only Baz and Snow.

There was not enough space in between him and Snow, and it felt like they were planets, orbiting, with one of them destined to careen into the other. He knew little of the stars, but he couldn’t imagine the fall out from the collision being anything short of a disaster.

Baz knew if he tried hard enough, he could’ve claimed the other room and left Penny and Snow to their own devices, but he was raised to have manners (and at least some sense of decorum and decency). (Unlike Snow).

So, be it chivalry, or that tiny _tiny_ part of him that didn’t actually object to sharing a room with Snow, he graciously accepted it. But now, he was now dreading bedtime.

Surprisingly, Snow didn’t kick up a fuss, even going as far as to agree with Baz. Honestly, Baz didn’t know if he wanted Snow to agree with him, or to reject the idea _for_ him. He had no idea what he wanted from Snow or otherwise and that’s what was what was so confusing about all of this. He had no idea why his heart beat a bit faster when they entered the room together, or why his limbs felt disjointed and foreign as Snow unpacked his meagre belongings.

Something fell to the floor with a thud, “Shit.”

Baz glanced over as Snow bent over to pick the item up. (Which was certainly an image he didn’t need right now). “Everything alright?”

Snow turned around, his eyes widening, “Uh, yeah. Fine. Everything’s fine.”

Baz saw something clasped in Snow’s hand, a bejewelled egg of sorts, “What’s that?”

“Something I nicked from the Palace,” Snow said almost too quickly, “looked expensive enough.”

Closing the distance between them, Baz held out a hand, “May I?” Snow passed over the egg slowly, as if he were afraid Baz would drop it.

 _Unlike you Snow, I have full control of my limbs_. _He is a storm wrapped up in man._

The egg was a lot heavier than it looked. He ran his fingers over the sunbursts, jewels. He could feel hinges at the base of it, but he couldn’t figure out how to open it, not without causing any damage to it anyway. Whatever secret it held, Baz was certain it died along with the palace.

Baz was pretty sure if Snow had sold it he’d be made for life. But who was he to question Snow’s finances? Then again, if he got his hands on something as ornate and as beautiful, he’d probably make it a point to keep it no matter how easy it would be to sell it or to leave it behind. It comforted him that he still had that level of sentimentality despite…well, everything. He handed the egg back to Snow who hurried to tuck into the depths of his case.

“Oh! Right!” Snow suddenly said, digging out a pair of pyjamas and holding them out to Baz. “You didn’t look like you brought, well. Anything. And your trousers don’t look comfortable.”

“I…thank you,” Baz said, narrowly avoiding a stutter.

_He had enough foresight to bring extra clothes? Snow?_

_Maybe he’s more thoughtful than I give him credit for_.

With the ice broken, Baz felt slightly more comfortable broaching the elephant in the room, “The bed.”

Broaching and actually effectively communicating were two different things, Baz realised, because Snow just looked at him waiting for the rest of the sentence that had died on Baz’s tongue.

“The bed?”

“Yes,” Baz said mustering what dignity he had left, “You can take it. If you want.”

“Oh it’s fine, you take it,” Snow said, “I’m used to sleeping on the floor.”

“Me too.”

_Take the olive branch Snow._

“We need you in tip top shape for Paris, can’t have you throwing out your back, right?” Snow said as he closed his case.

“Right,” Baz’s hand went to push back a few of strands of his hair, only to have something to do, “For…Paris.” He stomped down (no, beat down) the building disappointment back into the pit of his stomach. He knew Snow wasn’t doing all this _for_ him, but because it was his job; his duty to the Princess or something.

“Am I interrupting?” Penny’s head appeared in the doorway. Baz just shook his head and Snow shrugged. “Well there’s an hour or so before dinner, so I was wondering if you guys wanted to hit the deck? Soak in some views?”

“And what? Watch an endless body of water?” Baz raised his eyebrow, already dreading the cold.

“You might find it soothing,” Penny said cheerily, “It’s your first time, no? Leaving the country?”

He looked over to Snow, half expecting him to have upped and left the room. Instead, he was staring at Baz.

_Is he waiting for me to make a decision? Or is he afraid to make the decision?_

_Why would be afraid to make a decision?_

The room suddenly felt too small for three people - for Baz – and fresh air sounded lovely right about now; even the biting cold of being in open water sounded great. Anything to put some physical space between him and Snow he welcomed.

But then, as Snow followed him out, and he couldn’t get the idea of cosying up to him to stay warm out of his head.

* * *

The deck was nowhere near as cold as he expected, as if they were physically escaping the bitter grip of London – of the Mage – and Paris was welcoming them with warm, open arms. That said, they were still very much on the English side of the Channel, so the cold was still very much there. It had left the deck quite empty, save for a few stragglers puffing on their pipes, reading their newspapers. In the corner was a small band of sorts, most likely passengers, entertaining themselves. Baz looked out again at the open waters and honestly he couldn't blame them for making their own fun.

“Right,” Penny suddenly said, dragging him closer the band, “Good a time as any.”

“For what?”

“Dancing,” Penny said with a cheeky grin, “well, dance lessons.”

Baz wrenched his arm out of Penny’s grip and folded them, thoroughly unamused at the idea of dancing like a fool in front of a bunch of strangers.

“Baz, there’ll be balls, public events where you’ll _need_ to dance in front of strangers,” Penny said.

_Can she read my mind or something?_

Before Baz could protest further, Penny unfolded his arms, getting them into position, “Now, since you’re _you_ , you’ll be expected to lead. So, we had better practice. Can’t have you stepping on the toes of some duchess you’re destined to marry.”

“Toes may be the least of my problems,” Baz muttered.

“Huh? Why’s that?” Penny asked, still trying to wrangle Baz’s long arms into cooperation

“I prefer the company of men.”

“Oh.”

“That a problem?”

“From a succession point, yes,” Penny chuckled before dropping his arms, “But that’s a problem for _your_ advisers to deal with, not your dance teacher.” Baz has never _verbalised_ it, but the lack of a reaction from Penny sure wasn’t what he was expecting, even though he didn’t know what to expect. “Simon! Get over here.”

_Oh God._

“What are you doing?” Baz hissed.

“Figured you’d want to get used to dancing with a man rather than me,” Penny said casually, “Simon!”

“What?” Snow plodded over, looking at the both of them slightly confused.

“Baz needs a dance partner.”

Snow’s eyes grew to the size of saucers and Baz could make out the blush creeping from his neck that was spreading quickly up to his temples. He stared at Penny, then at Baz with his mouth open, then back at Penny. Baz hoped Snow was equally mortified, prayed that he’d kick up a fuss. (And at this point, he’d even take Snow being grossed out by the idea of two men dancing).

But Snow closed his mouth, stood up straighter (it doesn’t make him taller no matter _what_ he thinks) and juts his jaw slightly. Baz was used to this challenging look by now, and he hated how much he liked it; how it made his stomach do flips. But, wearing his heart on his sleeve was never Baz’s style, so, he tilted his head and merely raised an eyebrow in return.

“Better not stomp on me with your clown feet,” Snow said as he took Baz’s hand, placing it on his shoulder.

“But it would bring me such joy Snow.”

“Shut up,” he grunted, “I’ll lead, for now, then we can switch. After”

“After…” Baz muttered. As if waiting for Baz’s permission, Snow gently put his arm around Baz’s waist and he felt his breath hitch. With a soft nod, Snow pulled him in closer and started swaying. Baz felt the heat flowing in through their joined hands. Snow was warm, _so_ warm – he was practically a heater – Baz’s personal heater. Snow’s hands were rough and calloused, yet there was something in the way he held Baz that suggested a deft touch, an ability to recognise fragility and vulnerability.

They were _so_ close together it was impossible for Baz to look at anything but Snow’s eyes. It felt like he was surrendering to some force unknown to him, submitting to the inevitability that was falling for Simon Snow.

And he was, with every step they took, circling the deck, with the sun setting in front of them across the horizon, he fell a bit more. Snow was looking into his eyes, backlit by the final rays of light of the day – it was more than his heart could take.

But it made him feel alive, it thrilled him; awakening something in him that he had never felt before.

And it was _such_ a wonderful feeling.

A small giggle escaped from Penny and they both turned to look at her, “It’s funny, watching you both wrestle to lead.”

“Oh.”

“Oh.”

“You lead,” Snow whispered, looking up at him with his blue eyes. All Baz trusted himself to do was respond with a curt nod. Before Snow even let go, Baz found himself missing Snow’s arm around him. Though with their positions switched, Baz now had to deal with having Snow in his arms, and somehow trust that his composure would hold.

Tentatively reaching out, Baz swore he could feel Snow tense slightly when Baz’s hand found its way to the small of his back. His palms felt clammy, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of his own nerves or the heat from Snow’s hand warming him.

_1, 2, 3._

_1, 2, 3._

And suddenly Snow breaks the silence, “You’re good.”

“I am at most things Snow,” Baz said without half of his usual bravado.

“Twat.”

The faint music from the band fills the silence, the violinist was slightly off; it seemed a bit too fast and too slow at the same time. Baz was no musician, but it just sounded _off_ to him. Just like the idea of Snow and him, dancing on a bloody ship during sundown. None of this made sense, but somehow, it was perfect.

Snow was perfect.

“You know I saw you,” Snow said, apparently not as comfortable with the silence as Baz was, “dancing around the ballroom.”

Baz’s ears felt hot, he knew the one time he decided to be whimsical would come back to bite him, just not quite in this way. The music had stopped, and no matter how unwilling, Baz slowed them to a standstill. He kept one hand on Snow’s back, the other slowly dropped to his side, still holding Snow’s, not quite ready to let go of the heat, he tells himself.

“How do you deal with it?” Snow asked, swallowing heavily.

“What?”

“The spinning,” he could feel Snow’s breath on him, “Getting dizzy.”

“Feeling lightheaded?”

“Maybe we should stop.”

“We have stopped,” Baz’s eyes fell onto Snow’s lips. They were slightly apart, chapped from him being a perpetual mouth breather, and thoroughly inviting.

“Ah,” Snow was stammering, his mouth moving but nothing came out, his eyes roving over Baz’s face.

_Is he looking at my lips as well? Does he want this as well._

“Shall we then? Dinner.”

_Dinner. Right._

Baz sighed, “Yes, it’s always dinner with you, you glutton.” He pulled back from Snow, tucking his hands into his pockets, putting a physical barrier against the urge to reach back over.

“We don’t all survive off misery and glares alone..”

Their conversation, the words they were saying sounded like their usual back and forth, but Baz’s tone was nowhere near as sharp, and Snow didn’t sound remotely as angry as he usually does.

Nothing has changed, but it felt like everything has. Baz has no idea if it’s for the better or for the worse.

* * *

After the evening they had, Baz welcomed sleep. But it wasn’t until he was trying to fall asleep that he became very aware of the fact that Snow was in the room with him. Baz willed his mind to quiet and let him drift off, facing the cold metal wall – if Snow was out of sight, then hopefully he’d be out of his mind.

_Screaming and shouting…Everything was loud._

_It was also hot, burning._

_Gun shots, more shouting and a desperate plea from a woman._

_Baz didn’t know where he was, or who he was, everything was so dark and foreign. His limbs were too small, and his body weak and fragile._

_Suddenly a voice, a boy, “Through here!” and a light emerged._

_He felt pulled, dragged into the light. But on the other side, there was nothing but barren snow. The heat that had scorched his dreamscape was now gone, replaced with a ruin, buried in snow._

_His small legs felt heavy, and every breath was a struggle. But he had to keep running. From what he wasn’t sure; but he knew something was chasing after him._

_There was someone else here, but it wasn’t the boy. It was a hazy outline of a person, the grip they had on Baz made him hurt._

_He was scared. So scared. So helpless._

_“Through here!”_

_Then something struck the back of his head, searing pain and a flash of white_.

Baz bolted up from his bed, colliding with _something,_ bringing the pain from his dreams into his reality.

“Fuck!”

“Snow?!”

Baz’s eyes were still adjusting to the darkness, but he could just about make out the shape of Snow, clutching his forehead, sat on the side of the bed.

“Snow what the hell are you doing?” Baz was panting, trying to ignore the throbbing of his own forehead. He needed to know why Snow was hovering over him while he slept.

“You were whimpering and yelping,” Snow grunted, “and a black eye is the thanks I get!”

It was a lot of information to process whilst reeling from a nightmare, if it even was that. But it didn’t negate the fact that it was bad enough that it woke Snow up, and enough for him to worry. 

“Sorry.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

They sat there in silence. Baz didn’t have the energy or mental capacity to kick Snow off his bed, and Snow was too busy tending to his forehead, gingerly touching it, wincing and turning his head to Baz. “You want to talk about it?”

Baz was surprised. It was an innocent enough question, but it felt too intimate to share, too raw of unfiltered subconscious nonsense to discuss in the open. Even if the room only had the two of them, “I don't remember. Just…terrors, that’s all.”

“We all have them don’t we?”

“I suppose.”

He didn’t know what possessed him but when he felt the bed shift, he reached over and grabbed onto Snow’s wrist.

“Stay.”

He wished he could see Snow’s face, but it was so dark and there was a part of him that was terrified of knowing.

But then Snow said, “Alright.”

* * *

“Baz.”

He groaned into the soft pillow under him, attempting to communicate just how much he didn’t want to be disturbed right now. He felt warm, comfortable and safe. He’s not slept like that since…well, forever.

“Baz, we need to get up.”

_Snow?_

Baz opened his eyes, sleepdust making it an entire ordeal, but all of that became very irrelevant once he realised that the soft pillow he was snuggling into was actually Snow’s bare chest. 

In the span of one day, Baz had been confronted with the very inconvenient fact that the single most infuriating human being on this Earth was the single person who made him feel the most safe.

Who made him feel like he belonged.

 _For fuck’s sake_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plan was to have this all written and posted by Dec 30th.
> 
> Plan is the operative word. I hope you guys enjoy this softer chapter (also one of my favourite scenes from the film). 
> 
> I'll work hard to get the rest of it written ASAP - had to take a bit of a break haha
> 
> Thank you again to my wonderful beta [OtherWorldsLivedIn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn/pseuds/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn). <3


End file.
